"Ahem!" coughed the chairman of the previous evening, at length breaking silence. "Perhaps you would not mind telling us about your experiences of last night, Mr. McGuilp? I am sure we are all most curious to hear something about this mysterious lady. I have never met anyone yet who could say that they had seen her, though I have heard over and over again that she used to 'walk.'"
Thus entreated, our artist proceeded as follows:
Well, then, after I left you, gentlemen, last night, before I retired to rest, in looking round my apartment, I was much struck with an old portrait, painted in a very early style, of a lady in a nun's dress. In spite of the hard style of the period, there was something in the face—a sort of resigned melancholy—that interested me exceedingly. Still it was little more than a passing glance that I bestowed on the picture, for I felt very sleepy, and more inclined for bed than for criticising works of art. I accordingly undressed as quickly as I could, blew out the light, and in two minutes was fast asleep.
I could not have enjoyed more than a quarter-of-an-hour's repose, when I was suddenly awakened by what felt like a cold hand pressed upon my forehead. I started up, and tried to call out, but could not raise my voice above a whisper. I looked in the direction in which I expected to find the person who had awakened me, but could see nothing.
All was pitch dark around me, but I heard, or thought I heard, a deep sigh as I strained my ears to catch some sound of the intruder.
"Who's there?" I called out, in a husky whisper; but I received no reply.
Beginning to be alarmed, fancying that some dishonest person had entered my chamber to rob me, or else that it was someone of the household given to walking in their sleep, I sat up in bed and peered into the darkness.
As I listened I distinctly heard a low moan of such piteous anguish that it made my flesh creep and my hair to stand up.
"Who could it be?" I asked myself. "Perhaps some person of unsound mind in the family whose habit it was to walk at night, and lurk about the bed-chambers."
The thought was anything but a pleasant one. Who knows what form this madness might take? Mad people are not to be trusted. I trembled to think what the intent of my visitor might be. Was he armed? I tried to reach out my hand for my tinder-box, but such a supernatural terror pervaded my whole frame, that my limbs were paralysed, and I remained sitting up in bed, as if rooted to the spot, without power to move a finger.